


An Orcman and A Scholar

by ForbiddenArcanum



Category: Opal Woods, Original Work
Genre: Braindrain, M/M, Muscle Growth, Orc, Unwilling Transformation, musk, non-con, orc transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 21:24:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17815781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForbiddenArcanum/pseuds/ForbiddenArcanum
Summary: When you hear of legends of old, aren’t you inclined to look into them? After all, you have so much more than they did back then… and if it’s just over in the Opal Woods, there’s no reason not to go! As long as you keep your wits about you… wait, will losing them be a problem?





	An Orcman and A Scholar

Maxwell graduated top of his class in high school, serving not only as valedictorian, but also as the first student from that school to attend the top university of his country. His 4.0 GPA was nothing to sneeze at, and his impeccable sense of dress drew eyes from every classroom. His college career was well-rounded, and his sense of self-determination developed like a bud becoming a glistening fruit, hanging on a delicate and sparkling emerald branch.

People described him as classy, anti-austere, and drop-dead gorgeous. He smelled like sandalwood, said some. Lavender, said another. Still others claimed he smelled like orange blossoms. He was a lustrous wisp in the wind, dazzling your eyes one moment, and gone like smoke the next.

They say when he held you, it was warm and always just the right temperature. Even when you could see his breath, the wisps of steam danced on the air around you and made your chest burn bright with a warm fire.

He was a fan of the women that found his company pleasing–and so often did he mention it that it was a perfected art of his. He would cause blushes to spread as strawberry roots its way through a garden. He was as a gardener, planting and sowing the seeds until they burst forth with green tendril and red fruit, but never partaking of it himself. It was not for want of a better harvest, but rather his own determination sent him to seek things other than romance.

It was just today he found himself wandering through the Opal Woods, a backpack slung onto his broad and capable shoulders. His wispy and windswept blonde hair faded in against the sunlight, as if he was made of fire and light himself. His red and white cloak dusted along the ground, a small wake of dust in his tracks that slowly turned to powdery white plumes of snow.

His footsteps trailed their way through the snow, leading up the slick slopes of an all-too-far and forgotten peak. They trailed inside, curving around crags of crystal, cracked and scattered around.

The god that resided here had made it his home for many years. The springtime used to reign above all seasons, no matter what the foot of the mountain came to experience. Thunderclouds would part to fly around the peaks, and flowers of all seasons bloomed no matter the time of day. Those that lived there, only known to ancient scholars now, described it in the words of old as, best they could be translated, ‘Paradise’.

Maxwell reminisced on his lessons as he gently caressed an ice crystal. It did not melt, but stayed firm and solid in his hands, delivering an untold feeling of mistrust and fear in its temperature. This place was not always a part of the Opal Woods–but it was not as if the Woods themselves were cognizant enough to acquire the land itself.

Lord Ayambel, prince of the winter frosts, once lived on this peak with his most trusted and loving partner, Lord Sountelle. During this time, an adventurer came to appreciate their realm and recorded her observations. Her ever-famous works of art lined the halls of the finest museums, depicting Mount Paradise as a lush and lively location. Adventurers came from all across the land to pray to these gods and offer unto them the greatest gifts.

When it came time that Ayambel proposed to Sountelle, the entire mountain sang out in joy. The flowers bloomed for miles, and harvests were abundant across nations. Song and dance prevailed for years, and artists flocked to the mountain to hone their talent. Records would show, old and dusty as they were, vibrant and otherworldly hues in paintings, notes that had no reasonable translation back to the modern standard but were said to make armies of men weep, and passages so keen and crystal in their imagery that people lived multiple lives in a single visit of the library collections.

That was when disaster struck.

Lord Sountelle was known for his naivety, and one day travelled into the Opal Woods alone. Lord Ayambel searched for hours, which turned into days, and then into weeks. His heart grew colder with every second he was without his other half. Mount Paradise began to suffer. The snowstorms on the peaks began again in earnest, uprooting the land of fertile soil and blossoming crops. The cold tightened the strings of instruments, and caused them to snap; the people of mount paradise could no longer dance to the tunes of the musicians. Inkwells froze over into solid and unmeltable blocks; the passages of the sages could no longer be put to paper and read aloud. Paints congealed and separated from their solvents; artists could no longer convey the beauty that they once knew. Steadily, people began to leave their old homes for something new.

Lord Ayambel never found Sountelle, and was crushed. The snowstorms became blizzards, which became walls of ice, and for ten thousand years, Mount Paradise was frozen over entirely, under mile thick ice. The Opal Woods had adopted it at that moment. Mount Paradise was no more, but now another oddity inside of the strange and surreal dimension. Ayambel had lost his sweetest Summer, his light and fire–and his chest burned with desire no longer.

With ten thousand summers came healing and heat. The rays of the sun reminded Ayambel of the wondrous deeds of his people and of his Sountelle, and though he missed him terribly, he began to move on for his sake. Sunlight melted the mountain piece by piece, forming the great river deltas in the Opal Woods. The Rivers of Grief carried sediment from the mountain and instilled a host of flora and fauna inside of the Woods, giving rise to an almost entirely new, if more dangerous, Paradise.

Maxwell knew the stories well, and entered the chambers of this Lord Ayambel as it had become accessible only this year. The final layers of ice had melted away, but the core of the mountain remained solid as ever. As he pressed onwards, even his thick cloak did nothing to stop the waves of grieving cold from accosting him.

When he knelt down at the pool, he pulled from his worn backpack a singular plant, transported with greatest care in a small glass box. He set forth a brilliant purple orchid, the essence of which was so bright that as it neared the pond, the ice on the surface parted and split into water once more.

Before his very eyes, a whirlwind of flurries and white dust concentrated in a spiral, the orchid’s petals fluttering in the strong wind. Above the pond, the snow took form and shape, the ice on the walls slowly melting away to give form to something greater. His wings came together as fine lace, and his body as a clear icicle. He rose from the water into the waiting and frosty arms of his homestead, bared before Maxwell as an ice sculpture with enormous butterfly wings–a god of Winter, indeed.

“What would you summon me for, and so soon?” Ayambel spoke, his voice trembling. “I have only just begun to move past the grief I have imparted unto the woods.”

“I come here because I seek your gifts, Lord Ayambel,” Maxwell stated very plainly, kneeling down in front of him. “I know what grief has wracked you–though I know not the scale. It is not something us mortals could comprehend. I have brought you something that I might show my understanding.”

A gentle wind slowly picked up the pot in front of Maxwell, bringing it forward for inspection. Ayambel felt a finger along the petals, and took a shaky breath.

“Blue dendrobium. They were… his favorite.” A small drip-drop, like a leaky tap, sounded through the cavern. A sharp inhale, and a whining, wavering exhale that grew louder. Maxwell dared not look upwards, not even as the dripping grew louder, and into a torrent that overtook the cavern. The pond surged with water, and the shore came to his knees. Underneath him, he saw green sprouts puncture the surface of the sediment that once laid under the ice. Around him, bursts of perfuming flora were blooming, showing their true colors and lighting the cavern with strings of luminescent buds.

It was only after the dripping slowed to a near-halt that Maxwell dared to look upwards.

Ayambel floated there, his wings flapping more steadily, his body as ice and his hair as fresh fallen snow. His eyes held no pupils or irises, but instead glowed with the brightness of a thousand winter mornings. Saltwater trickled down his cheeks, but his chest glowed with a faint orange light–so faint that if his body was a night sky, the keenest astronomers might mistake it for dust on the lens.

“You have demonstrated your understanding, and risked much to come here. The Woods are not as forgiving as they were when… we were here.” Ayambel took a moment, caressing the petals of the orchid once more in silence. “Tell me what you have traveled here for.”

The two of them traveled along an old and well-travelled road in the forest–one hacked through by an adventurer some time ago. The branches still oozed sap, eager to fix their wounds, and plants refused to burst through the small line of dirt that many feet had packed into a hard trail. It wasn’t until Maxwell came to a clearing, empty and devoid of life, that he spoke.

“I wish to create Paradise once more.” Maxwell surveyed the area affectionately.

“Paradise?” Ayambel looked on incredulously. “This land is barren–not tainted, nor cursed, but unfit for any sort of intervention.”

“By mortal intervention.”

“What would you have me do, Sir Maxwell? Paradise was the work of… two gods. Myself and Sountelle. And now, he is gone.”

“I would propose you impart a blessing unto myself, where I would impart that blessing unto the land.”

“If it would mean the resurrection of Paradise, I can hardly deny you,” Ayambel sighed. “As long as you promise to me that you will uphold the tenets I will speak.” Ayambel extended a hand, his icy form dripping as the warm winds of the Woods blew around him. Maxwell took it, grasping it tightly.

“I should like to hear them.”

“You will truly cater to this place as though it were to be Paradise–as if it were the original.”

“This I must accept.”

“You will bring this place to its former glory before your life has passed–or you find another, to whom you will give the blessing, and they will continue your life’s work.”

“It would be an honor.”

“You shall make this place a refuge–a place for those downtrodden, a place for those shut out and outcast and ostracized from their homes. You will turn away nobody. Feed the hungry, house the homeless, and care for the uncared for.”

“Aha, a jest, my lord,” Maxwell chortled, attempting to draw his hand back. Ayambel held firmly. “Oh, was it not?”

“Certainly not, Sir Maxwell, and you would do me a great insult to think so.”

“Perhaps I should explain my thinking.”

“Perhaps you should indeed.” Ayambel’s tone grew firm, and Maxwell felt his hand no longer wet–but rather, very cold.

“I am not wont to accept lazy oafs and disgusting freaks into my home, if it is to be called Paradise.”

“Is that so?”

“They shan’t work, shan’t bathe? Shan’t maintain some decent standard of living? Then they cannot live here.”

“But in a place such as Paradise, you could afford them the resources to pursue these avenues. You have no right to turn them away.”

“Lord Ayambel, with all due respect, it will foster a culture of dependency! Should I give people who have no business being in Paradise a free ticket to come live here, they will never change their ways. People are set in their ways, always and forever.”

“How abhorrent.” Ayambel snarled, the ice of his hand beginning to condense the air around it. “That you would attempt to gain my blessing to build this monstrosity, under the pretense of Paradise! The people of this world are as beautiful and benevolent as they are varied. To claim to know each person as a mortal is an unruly act of ignorance–to claim to know each person, even as a god, is laughable.”

“So then, when the people left Paradise instead of searching for Sountelle, that was beautiful and varied? When they abandoned you? They abandoned him?” Maxwell smiled, fancying himself having won the dispute.

“You would do well to keep his name out of your mouth.” Ayambel’s eyes narrowed, his entire body steaming and his hand shaking with its firm grip on the mortal before him.

“If I had been in charge at the time, I assure you,” Maxwell began.

“Choose the next words from your mouth wisely.”

“…I would have had Sountelle found in but an hour. Without proper vetting of these residents? You had no chance.”

There was a blinding flash of white, and Ayambel was then a hundred feet above him, and ten times larger than before. Around one of his arms was curled the orchid that Maxwell had offered, the bloom resting in his palm. Horridly frigid winds plagued the area, dust spiraling up into white snow as the barren land was wracked for what little it was worth.

“That you would accost me, after ten thousand years of grief… after my Summer has been STOLEN from ME! And you would ask for GIFTS?!” A shrieking, shrill voice cracked through the air as Ayambel’s eyes blurred with saltwater tears. “Then you shall have your putrid gifts–as defined by your own tongue! You will have the gift of metamorphosis, that you might change your ways, impudent mortal!”

Ice trailed up the curving stalk of the orchid on Ayambel’s arm, freezing each section of the stem and leaves, crackling and hissing as it went, until even the deep blue petals found themselves in pale blue ice. With a flex of his hand, the icy flower shattered, and the shards were thrown into the land below.

Maxwell stepped back for once. He had been so determined to press onward, he wasn’t sure if he had left enough room to back out of this predicament. As one of the shards speared him through the hand, however, he found the icy chill slowly turn to a burning fire–a painful, searing heat in his heart and lungs.

“Should you brag of finding Sountelle, I shall give you the gifts he had–as best as I can remember them for someone such as you. His heat, his burning and ever persistent passion, I pass unto you.” Pass it did, as Maxwell felt his blood turn to hot oil, his veins swelling and popping out of his skin, causing him to shriek in pain as it coursed throughout his body.

“Gods, this isn’t–Auuugh! What foul magic have you cursed me with?!”

“The very same you have given me–the poison of your ways!” Ayambel hissed, snapping his fingers. “Have his heat, endlessly and always!”

Maxwell felt his clothes shedding off of him, the fabric sloughing off to the sides as his body poured out sweat and drool, all manner of his body’s cooling systems kicking into overdrive. His skin burnt and irritated itself until it was bright and glistening ruby. His tongue hung out of his mouth, thick and dripping, his entire body shaking with pain and wracked by the god’s magic.

“You would do yourself a disservice to think that is the last of his many gifts. A scholar–if one could call you that–would remember that I loved him, and there is no shortage to the things I grieved over having LOST!” Ayambel’s fiercely cold winds found themselves burning hot, the white snow slowly spinning into boiling hot winds of steam. “His strength, to you, shall be but a disfiguring form!”

Maxwell screamed, enormous tusk-like teeth jutting out of his skull as his body cracked and reshaped itself. The power that Sountelle held was the burning heat of Summer, the fires of the Sun, and the bountiful harvest of the season–his body couldn’t hold it as it was. His muscles grew profoundly, his gut fattening and and entire body bulging larger. His body hair sprung up like unkempt carpets, tainted with musk and sweat from his burning body. His heat and his stench began to soften the earth around him, causing him to sink into a puddle of mud underneath himself. The now eight foot tall brute rose to his full height, straining to maintain concentration as he felt his new body slowly sinking into the mud. He thundered forwards, the ground melting with every step as the orcish brute’s heat affected his surroundings.

“What have… you done to me?! HUUUARRRGH!” Maxwell roared as his body felt yet another wave of burning heat, his muscles and sweat glands feeling even more energy pouring into them as Ayambel snarled.

“I have taken his gifts and bestowed them onto your despicable form. It is not my fault his traits take on this form for you, stench-ridden and disgusting brute. I have but one left to give you before I shall let you endure your curse.”

“I beg of you, yield!” Maxwell held up a thick finger, his hand clutching his chest, his heart feeling like it was going to burst at any second.

“I have yielded for far too long–now is the time for me to act! And for that sophomoric statement–you shall have his naivety. What caused him to be lost to us all… and it will be your greatest trait of the three!”

Before Maxwell could argue, Ayambel had already given a wave of his hand. Like that, years upon years of his school teachings spilled from his head in a disgusting and putrid green sludge. It poured from his ears, his nose, and even out of his mouth. His eyes rolled around as he stumbled back and forth, the ground melting underneath him and causing him to roll around and tumble through the now muddy land. The clearing began to fill with the putrid green slime, and Maxwell struggled to maintain himself, to hold onto anything that he could ever remember–but like unrolling a scroll over a fire, the more he tried to remember, the more he lost.

“I can’t… Lord… Ayambel… you’ve… you…” For a moment, there was a brief, repentant clarity in Maxwell’s eyes–a realization of his misdeeds, of his manipulation, of his hubris. Would that he had seen it, Ayambel may have thought to end it there.

But tears are a lens through which many things are distorted.

Ayambel watched, hugging his knees to his chest as his lacy wings kept the putrid stench of the orcman from his form. He saw as the very last of Maxwell’s humanity left his eyes. Maxwell was no longer–but rather, the Orcman, full of thoughts of reproduction and none of empathy, was now present.

Satisfied with himself, Ayambel gave a hard push of his wings, retreating back into the mountain from whence he came–leaving the Orcman in a swamp of his own making. Mud, putrid slime, and himself were all that remained.

For days, he did nothing but toy with himself. He felt his nipples between his fingers, slobbered over his own hands and used it to pleasure himself, and used more than one finger to stretch his new, oversized backside. He was never not slicked up, constantly putting things inside himself if only for the feeling of it, never caring how dirty nor filthy he was. He sought only to masurbate, spreading gallons of his seed into the swamp under him. He thought only of fertility, and all the orc men that would come from him when he found a suitable, larger mate to dominate him. He did nothing for days, for weeks–for ten thousand years, trapped in a prison of his own new vices, given form.

Maxwell graduated top of his class, attended the most prestigious college in his nation, and smelled of lavender, no, sandalwood, no, citrus. When he held your hand he lit a fire in your soul and put a light in your eyes. When he spoke it was like cresting waves on a dry beach. Everything about him was enchanting–except for the black, cold stone that he tried to call his own heart, now lit aflame and burning away slowly, as if it had never been there.

And truly, it might as well have never been.


End file.
